Swiped
by Demeter1
Summary: It wasn't over until it was over. And then it was too late. Harry and a dead dead dead Draco.


**"Swiped"**

**Demeter**

**Disclaimer:** All rights and privileges to Harry Potter are trademarks and property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic, Warner Brothers, and associated parties. The author claims no legal responsibility for problems associated with using this work. The story, the relationships, and original characters within the fic are copyright of the author Demeter.

**Pairing**: None, that I can see.

**Rating**: PG13 - someone dies, kiddies

**Spoilers**: Up to was written about a year previous to the release of book six.

* * *

There was no breath left in what should have been screaming lungs.

Harry crouched down and placed an ear to the oddly-still chest and he listened. Listened with all his might, with all his intensity, with a trembling hope, with nothing but a sudden heaviness in his eyes, limbs, face. He wanted the pale figure before him to move, to sneer, to mock him as _The Boy Who Lived_, as Harry **Potter**.

He wanted that with all the irrational fervor of a woebegone child, and when he slowly lifted his dark head, he knew with a sudden coldness, that there would be no more childish fights in the hallway, no more hexing behind teacher's backs, no more bashing behind closed portraits, no more glares across the Great Hall, no more insults, and no more hate-filled glances where both wanted the other dead – in the wispy form of dreams and nightmares – with a simple certainty that _they_ were the one in the right.

There should have been a war raging around them. But other than the Auror who was standing with an impassionate air and with his wand arm tense and ready, the only other companions were the hiding animals of the forest, the fouling air filled with death, and the quiet rustle of the trees who refused to stop their _living_ even in the face of such a strangled little boy.

Something seized his throat.

And he looked up at the Auror. Who couldn't seem to bring himself to fill hazel eyes with compassion or even any form of distant regret. Perhaps it was the wand – oak? Birch? Beech? Or the lack of blood on pristine robes. Or the fact that there was no one else around to witness the sudden end of a childish feud.

Whatever it was, there was vitriol rage building in Harry's mind. A terrible grief and despair and shock that someone so hateful could have just simply _died_.

He suddenly very much wanted Draco Malfoy to live again.

Wanted the twitch in the pale face when Harry had first taunted him about his father's incarceration. Wanted the evil smirk every time Snape had taken points away from the House of Gryffindor. Wanted the endless arguments, fights, hexes, verbal abuse to regain their past to present and sweep once more past his numb mind.

There was no time to wonder at the great irony of his thoughts.

All he could focus on was the rapidly-cooling body of Draco Malfoy – Slytherin Prefect, Sixth Year, First in Potions, ten O.W.L.S., Quidditch Seeker, regular annoyance, hateful fixture of his life – and the Auror who had suddenly awakened Harry to ugly truths he now wished he had never known.

"You – you didn't have to kill him." The words were stuttered, rasped out in utter bewilderment, not at all angry, though he wanted so much to scream, to yell, to sob - shocked to the core at the intensity of the emotions roaring through him. He pushed them back, because he couldn't think of anything other than _what was the truth?_ at the moment. All he could be sure of was that he felt filled to the edge with fury and he wanted that fury to have a voice… even if it was a cracking voice of a child only stepping to the brink of adulthood.

The Auror said nothing, but coolly lowered his arm and gave Harry a piercing look. There was nothing _to be_ said, apparently. The Malfoy child was a well-known heir to a legacy riddled with darkness and who knows what Draco Malfoy would have grown into, what crimes he might have committed if he had been allowed to follow the footsteps of his terribly domineering father who controlled his only son even from Azkaban?

Harry could have quoted the different variations he had heard of _that_, each laced with their own versions of disgust and fear.

And it had been funny. Then. People hissed at the boy behind his back and to his face. People attacked him in hallways and at train stations. People had praised, giggled, cursed, hated, and loved him. People did many things, but no one had ever _killed_ Draco Malfoy. No one had ever ended the endless grudges. But one spell. One simple spell. And in a flash of brilliant green, a snotty, evil, little life was ended.

Only, it didn't feel all that snotty or evil or little anymore.

"You didn't have to KILL HIM!" This time, Harry did yell, dimly realising that a terrible wave of misery was swelling up within him, and that if he didn't say something now, he would never be able to forgive himself later.

Why did death have to be so _still_?

"What might he have done to you if he were allowed to become a… **Death Eater**?" The last two words were spat out with no small amount of disgust, and Harry couldn't even be horrified by the tears that were starting to roll unashamedly down his face at the sheer shock and coldness that had accompanied the sudden disappearance of his Hogwarts rival. The Auror continued, "What might have happened to your friends if we hadn't taken the first blow? What might have happened to any number of muggles who encountered him at night?" The Auror shook his greying head. "You are much too innocent and ignorant, Mr. Potter."

And Harry howled and leapt up. In anger? In grief? In hatred? He didn't know.

All he knew was that someone he had lived, breathed, worked, studied, spoken, eaten, fought, and flown with for six long years was suddenly irrevocably gone and would never come back no matter how many times he wished, no matter how much he cried under the covers, no matter who he begged.

It didn't matter that he still hated Draco Malfoy. That he still thought the boy was a ferret-like companion worthy of only dogs – only, that was an insult to Sirius – and was someone who should have been dropped off in the vast nowhere of the Gobi desert. It didn't enter his mind that only hours before, he thought he wouldn't have minded if Draco Malfoy had up and died – preferably painfully – and that he would have cheerfully provided the wand. It didn't matter that this was what he had wished for a long number of years and that the living proof of that fervent wish was lying at his feet. It didn't matter at all, that Draco Malfoy might or might not have been a Death Eater, that he might or might not have been the possible murderer of Ron and Hermione and a number of his friends and allies.

All that mattered was that Draco Malfoy - _Draco Malfoy_ - was dead. And he had done nothing at all for once.

Harry launched himself blindly at the older wizard, uncaring that he was acting distinctly muggle-ish, without any thought to the fact that this was a highly-trained wizard and that a wand pointed at him was an excellent weapon, both physically and metaphysically.

He might have been seriously injured if not for the long, thin arms that wrapped themselves around his waist and prevented another step. Arms that cradled Harry to an equally thin chest, a chest he found terribly familiar, one he couldn't help but suddenly sob into as everything he had seen washed into him like a rising flood of unmeasured agony.

Remus Lupin held him quietly and dimly, Harry could hear others stepping to surround the odd trio. One dead, one crying, one standing without defiance or pride or regret – what did it look like to those who were only just joining? He wanted Sirius badly – but then realized that Sirius wasn't there and never would be because he was dead too.

A great sob hitched.

Dumbledore's calming voice rang out, but even the golden chimes shook slightly at the sight of yet another failed young life. "Anthony… I see I am too late, then. Do you provide an explanation?"

"I did what I felt was a need. I feel no further explanation is required. Albus." The last word was tacked on somewhat deferentially, but in the state Harry was in, he couldn't have cared if the Auror prostrated himself and called Dumbledore "Lord and Master".

"… Perhaps not to me. But to yourself at night, Anthony. Macmillan and Zoolidge will escort you to the Ministry for questioning and punishment. As for young Draco's body, it will return to Hogwarts until his mother can come and claim him." The last sentence was said with a sharp tone, and Anthony, the Auror, flinched.

Harry wondered how Dumbledore could seem so calm when the lifeless body of one of his students – admittedly Slytherin, though it suddenly occurred to Harry that it shouldn't have mattered at all – was in a sprawled heap less than a foot away. But then, Dumbledore was Dumbledore, and maybe it was in the duties of the Headmaster to remain neutral until safely ensconced in private quarters. He looked up from Remus' arms once more, eyes burning, and saw Severus Snape, his planed face set into a severe expression, heft the body of Draco Malfoy into his arms and walk off without a single glance at Harry or the Auror.

There was an anger boiling up. How could Snape face the death of one of his once-prized students with such nonchalance and impassion? He wanted to bring up his own wand and blast the potions master with a number of handy hexes, when he remembered… that only _hours ago_ he would have done gleefully the same to Draco Malfoy.

His breath snagged on a great wooden block stuck in his throat.

Remus led him quietly away, greenish-gold eyes filled with warmth and concern. But Harry pushed them away, because he suddenly couldn't abide such gentle hands. He turned to Dumbledore, tears once more marring his vision, but he still couldn't feel any embarrassment over something that might have almost definitely once shamed him in front of so many people. But the old man was holding a staring contest with the Auror, but he broke it after the other man looked away – in annoyance? In regret? – and looked calmly at Harry.

Green eyes unwittingly questioned him. Asked why he wasn't angrier, sadder, more indignant.

And blue, the colour of the smiling sky, said back, "Because this man will not understand from simple words or actions."

Harry couldn't help but turn hastily away, eyes locking once more on the retreating back of Severus Snape, who was now looking oddly alone and rigid. He could barely make out the slightly flopping head of Draco Malfoy, and the blond stood out terribly bright amid all the sudden grey.

"Come along, Harry. We need to get you inside."

He nodded mechanically, slowly, and allowed Remus to guide him, firm hands on his shoulders, to the fireplace where they would be able to take the fireplace back to Hogwarts. The most direct path. The easiest path.

The path that he had taken when he appeared just in time to see the Auror scornfully speak of Lucius Malfoy and as if leisurely watching the telly, see Draco Malfoy back away in uneasy fear – how could it be that Malfoy had been scared of an Auror, a member of society who was destined to protect everyone? – and with his back to a wall, where there was no escape, no escape.

Harry then had watched the Auror cast _the spell_ and he was nearly blinded by the green light but not nearly enough, for he watched in sluggish, morbid fascination as Draco Malfoy fell, awkwardly and without grace, into a lifeless heap of flesh, skin, bones and slowing blood. As a long, agonizing moment passed, he wondered, strangely enough, why Malfoy and the Auror were together at the Floo station next to Hogsmeade, when Malfoy should have already been there with his Slytherin housemates.

He continued to wonder as he felt himself scream – yes, for it was a bloody scream rather than a 'manly' yell - in horror and then rush forward, unheeding of the possible danger, to check the boy in the vain hope for a sign of life.

"Harry – don't think about it. Not yet. Not until Dumbledore can come and explain." Remus' voice was firm and the hands hovered over Harry's shoulders.

But he couldn't help but think about it. Couldn't help but picture the gangly body falling over and over and over…

He felt himself being led into the castle, remembered curious looks being cast at him from other students and professors, from stray questions directed at Remus Lupin, who some still thought with kindness and fondness, to the unbearable twisting stairs that led them to Albus Dumbledore's cheerful office. He felt himself being gently set into a chair and he was mechanically sipping at a cup of steaming tea when the old man finally swept in, robes muted in their usual joyous riot of colours. He nodded to Remus, who poured him a cup and added a cube of sugar and a twist of lemon before handing the drink to Dumbledore. He drank it all in one long swallow and then set the cup down before casting his gentle gaze on Harry.

"The Auror is in the hands of the Ministry at the moment. And he will be subsequently disciplined for his infraction."

Infraction was a word good for an illegal hex or smuggling stolen cauldrons into the country, but Harry couldn't call killing someone – even someone he had loathed so much – an _infraction_. But then, Dumbledore hadn't said 'properly' either. Harry guessed that Dumbledore also didn't think the Auror would get what he deserved.

A muscle twitched in his face, and he had to set his cup down in fear that the awful shaking of his hands would spill the hot liquid and scald his lap.

"Harry…"

"He, he killed him, killed Malfoy, Professor. Like he was, was, some sort of _rodent_. And I mean, Malfoy is! He's a ferret, but that doesn't mean he just…! Why'd he do it? Why'd he kill someone who didn't even have his wand out? Why'd he do it? To anyone? I mean, it would have made sense if Malfoy was wearing a hood and a Death Eater mask, but he wasn't, and I don't understand at all!" The words burst out, in a torrent of confusion and biting anger.

"I don't explain his actions, Harry, but all Aurors are on some level, especially if they are from the previous generation, ready to kill another wizard or witch if that particular person presented a viable threat."

"But Malfoy wasn't even pointing his wand at anything or anyone! He didn't even have his wand _out_! The stupid Auror was waiting for him!" Harry shouted, heedless of the impropriety of such an action, especially after his previous year's actions of messing up Dumbledore's office while consumed in one of his steadily-growing tantrums.

"He was a Malfoy and to some, that is, unfortunately, enough."

Harry's mind gaped. "Just because he's a Malfoy, he has to **die**?"

"Yes, Harry. That is how many… no, most, feel should be the fate of the Malfoy's. And other families, if possible." Dumbledore sighed, and a few more wrinkles appeared in his face. "It's an ugly truth, but one nonetheless."

Harry sat back abruptly, filled with turmoil. He couldn't help but feel the traitorous memories come forth of Ron commenting on the Malfoy's lineage and hissed whispers among the Hufflepuff's about the dark ancestry of Malfoy's family and his own glee when he saw Lucius Malfoy imprisoned and remembering his thoughts of how _'I was right all along'_.

Dark ancestry, indeed.

He felt, rather than heard, his next words come out in a stumbling hurry. "What's going to happen to the Auror? And…" Unbelievingly as he was to find that he was asking this, "How about Slytherin House?"

Dumbledore gazed at Harry steadily and was seemingly weighing his answer. "The Auror, Harry, will be punished. Most likely, he will be given a few weeks off work without pay. And Harry…" He paused, and his glittering blue eyes never took theirs off of the Harry's. His voice softened to regret and leveled to sorrow. "People will most likely cheer for what he did. People will praise him and sneer in wonder why no one killed Draco Malfoy earlier."

Tears seemed to well up unbidden in Harry's eyes. He couldn't erase the seared image of surprise and sudden death in blue-grey eyes that were staring at the sky without emotion or their usual disdain and hatred. And he suddenly couldn't understand how he had ever wanted anyone – even Malfoy – to just die without justifiable reason like _that_.

He twisted slightly to look at Remus and the older man, seeing his gaze, nodded gently. Harry felt his guts coil and he forced himself to look at the floor to regain some form of equilibrium.

"And the Slytherins?" He asked without looking up. He couldn't possibly look up yet.

"Professor Snape will inform them before the evening feast and after they have all returned from Hogsmeade. And they may choose to partake or not in dinner. I will announce Mr. Malfoy's death to the rest of the School during the meal." He paused once more and then, with a firm tone, he said, "Look at me, Harry."

He looked.

"There will be those who cheer. There will be those who smile. There will be those who comment and say that 'I'm not at all surprised'. There will be range of reactions, most undesirable for students under our tutelage, but they will be there nonetheless. However, Harry…" He leaned forward, a strange intensity to his manner and voice. "What happens during **that** exact moment when everyone else is celebrating, what **those** who don't agree, what those who are **willing** to stand up to the majority and say something different… **that** will be what is remembered and held to the heart of those that it will matter most to."

And he sat back, allowing the tension to dissipate.

Harry stared at Dumbledore for a few moments longer, before stumbling to his feet and mumbling a number of entreaties to be dismissed, and without waiting for the actual words, he nearly dashed from the room, ignoring the startled McGonagall on her way up the stairs, brushing past Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Neville outside gargoyle, running, running, running… running for the safety of Gryffindor Tower, though he no longer knew how safe it could be when he knew he was being surrounded by a number of future Aurors and those who might someday indiscriminately kill a fellow student because of the possibility of _might_.

No longer could Harry think of the word _Auror_ without feeling a despairing sense of futility and revulsion. Couldn't imagine how he could ever hold a wand and possibly kill anyone just because they were the _child_ of a Death Eater.

Nearly crying, he muttered the password to the Fat Lady, who let him in without a word, and he raced upstairs and launched himself onto his bed, let the curtains fall around, bewitched as they were to prevent anyone from hearing his constant nightmares, and simply wailed. As a child would when faced with all his shattered dreams. As a young man would when everything he once thought right twisted around and became _wrong_. As anyone would when death stares them so clearly in the eye and they know with a sudden certainty that there is absolutely nothing for them to do.

And Harry couldn't help but think that the worst thing was that he _didn't_ know what he might actually say once everyone found out. Would he leap up and defend _Draco Malfoy_ to all his fellow Gryffindors? Would he ridicule those from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw for their clapping, when he knew that it would bring coldness and suspicion of his loyalties, even though he should have been the last one they suspected? Did he have the bravery necessary to stand up to his friends who undoubtedly would feel the same way as the others? Could he stare at the Slytherins in the eye and not be able to stand up for one of their lost as they had done the same, despicable thing to Cedric? Could he, as Harry Potter, be able to do what Dumbledore wanted, and be the first among - hopefully - many to say that cheering at the death of someone – even someone like Draco Malfoy – was wrong and foolish?

Did he have that strength?

And he felt as if he was suffocating, unable to take a single breath, because he knew that he didn't know.

Even after seeing someone he once hated die in front of him like that, he couldn't be sure of whether he knew what was right and what was wrong anymore. He didn't know if Draco Malfoy was like Cedric Diggory and Sirius Black. He didn't know if the Slytherins deserved to die because they belonged to a certain house and came from pureblood backgrounds. He didn't know if Draco Malfoy was destined to die just because he was born to Lucius Malfoy.

He simply didn't know.

**- fin -**

Admittedly, I feel some of this is now bull. But I enjoyed writing it, so I hope you enjoyed reading.

Pass me some constructive criticism, if you please. )


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